


The Common App

by ionthesparrow



Series: Written Works [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer after junior year, Stiles trains to be part of a werewolf pack, comes out, is kissed for the first time, falls in love, then out, and still has nothing to write about for his college application essays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Common App

Spring quarter, 2015

 

Stiles is staring out the kitchen window and debating.  On one hand, he should be studying. On the other hand, he should definitely go to the grocery store, because there is no way he’ll have time tomorrow.  On the (rhetorical) third hand, he should be writing his essay.  He should almost certainly be doing something other than staring into space.

His phone buzzing is a relief.  Stiles grabs it before it can vibrate its way off the kitchen counter, and groans a little when he sees the caller ID, _Canis lupus primus_.  He answers, “Derek”

“Stiles.”  There’s a beat of silence long enough for Stiles to mentally roll his eyes as he imagines Derek crossing _check up on Stiles_ off his to-do list.  It probably comes after _kill small animal with bare hands_ , and right before _do one million push-ups_.

“I’m fine” he tosses out.  “Things are fine.  I’m passing all my classes.  I’m exercising and eating right, maintaining an optimal school/life balance, and a cheery disposition.”  One of his roommates wanders into the kitchen and gives him a look.  “Dad?” she mouths at him.  Stiles rolls his eyes and nods because it’s way easier than explaining the truth.  He imagines telling her, _See, there’s this guy in my hometown, right?  And even though we aren’t friends he still calls once a month – like clockwork – to check up on me.  Because he’s my best friend’s alpha, and therefore thinks he can run my life as well.  Oh, did I forget to mention he’s a werewolf?_

She shoots him a sympathetic glance and heads back out into the living room with the popcorn.  The last of the popcorn.  The popcorn is the last edible thing in the house.  He really needs to go grocery shopping.  Stiles drags his attention back to the phone long enough to catch, “... don’t really appreciate the sarcasm.”

“Fine, can we just be done until next month then?  I’m busy” Stiles knows he’s being a dick, but he can get away with it because Derek is a lot less scary when he’s several hundred miles away.  Also, Derek always makes him sort of irrationally angry, still. 

There’s a deep sigh from across the phone line.  And another long pause before Derek asks, “Are you coming home this summer?” 

“No.  I don’t know.  Maybe.  There’s this internship at the Medical Center I applied for -” he breaks off, feeling suddenly shy.

“Good.  That’s good, I mean –” there’s a pause, and the scuffling sound of the phone being transferred from one ear to the other, “I mean, I hope you get it.”

“Right, it would keep me out of your hair for another three months.”

“Stiles, that’s not what I meant.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything, just lets the silence hang, because apparently today is Be An Asshole Day, and he is _on fire_. 

“Fine.  Be that way.  I’ll talk to you next month. Scott says hi, by the way.”

“Tell that lazy mofo to call me” Stiles grins, because he may be an asshole, but of course he wants to hear from Scott.

Derek just sighs.  “Goodbye Stiles.  And be careful.  Take care of yourself.  Call me if you need anything.”

Stiles mouths along with these last few phrases because they are always, always the way Derek finishes the conversation.  “Right.  Will do. Bye.”  He ends the call. He feels antsy, like he always does after he hears from Derek.  And angry.  And weirdly claustrophobic and abandoned all at once.  The need to move is like an itch under his skin.  He does a quick-change into his running gear in his room and heads for the door.  “Becca!” he calls out, “I’m going running – don’t lock me out!”

He tromps down the stairs, out the door, and heads north up Brooklyn.  It’s sort-of-but-not-really raining, but it’s Seattle and March so it’s going to sort-of-not-really rain for the next three months.  It’s just under three miles to Green Lake Park, and then another two and half to circumnavigate the lake.  The distance is ambitious, but not undoable.  The exhaustion feels welcome.

-=-

 

Summer, 2012

 

Derek has taken to training them in the middle of the woods.  It has the advantage of being far away from prying eyes, but, Stiles thinks as he resettles his backpack, the disadvantage is that it’s in the _middle of the fucking woods._ There are, apparently, loads of things new werewolves need to know, and now that he’s not distracted by hunting down and killing crazy alphas, Derek has apparently decided that _now_ is the time. 

Stiles has referred to this as Werewolf Summer School or Remedial Werewolfery, but these terms have earned him pointed glares so now he mostly calls it that inside his own head. Scott and Jackson have been forcibly enrolled in The Tracking of Moving Things (namely, Stiles); Changing into Your Wolf; Not Changing into Your Wolf, Even When Pissed at Something (usually Stiles); and How to Hide and Scare the Living Shit Out of Someone (again, Stiles FTW). 

By default then, Stiles has been assigned, Acting as Bait: the Life of A Human Lure, and Running and Hiding 101.  And since hiding from a werewolf, even one as vaguely inept as Scott, is basically hopeless - he’s been doing a lot of running.

Actually, Derek has set them all to a common conditioning program so intense it has Stiles thinking he’s ready for Parris Island.  Not even the freak heat wave that hit Beacon Hills this week has dissuaded him from chasing them up hills, and giving them heavy rocks to carry around.  Which is why Stiles is packing in 5 gallons of water.  Packing it in from the trailhead where he left his car, two miles behind him.  _My life,_ he thinks, _how is this my life?_

“Hey Stiles!”

Stiles jumps, shrieks, overbalances, falls, and finds himself on the ground, looking up at Scott, who has the nerve to look inordinately pleased with himself.  “I’m getting better, huh?”

“Yes.  Great.  Fantastic.  Now help me up.”  Scott drags him to his feet.  Stiles get his first good look at his friend, “What the hell have you been doing out here?”  Scott is naked to the waist, and plastered with dirt and bits of leaf debris.

“Sparring.  It’s awesome.” He grins at Stiles. And even though he’s not wolfed-out, it looks a touch more predatory than Scott’s smiles used to be.  “C’mon.  You’ll want to see this – Derek’s kicking Jackson’s ass.”  There is a certain pleasure to watching Jackson get knocked down, Stiles concedes, and hustles to follow. 

Jackson and Derek are in a clearing where, two days ago, Derek made them army crawl in circles for an hour.  They’re circling each other slowly.  Jackson feints forward, but slow and sort of hesitant.  Derek steps around him easily, and once behind him, whacks him across the back of the head.  Hard.  Stiles winces. Jackson looks pissed.  When he comes at Derek again, it’s faster and much more aggressive.  Derek does something too impossibly fast for Stiles to follow and suddenly Jackson is on the ground, flat on his back. 

“Better.” He says, helping Jackson up.  Then he looks up at Stiles, “Now you.”  Stiles strips his shirt off, because he knows there is no point in either arguing or ruining good clothing.  Derek turns back to Jackson, “You and Scott practice tracking.  Don’t go too far.” 

“Can’t we just spar with each other?” Scott is clearly disappointed.

“No.  I don’t want you two fighting.  Not yet.” He looks at both of them for a long moment, “I mean it.” 

Jackson rolls his eyes, “C’mon McCall. I bet I can find you with my eyes closed.”

 

Later, when they’re all stretched out on the clearing floor, Stiles thinks _this isn’t so bad_. Scott and Jackson are grousing over the last of the water, Derek is sprawled in a sunspot, for once looking more cat than wolf, one arm thrown up to cover his eyes. The sun is starting to creep down, the light slicing in sideways through the trees.  It’s peaceful.   It’s pretty.  He likes the late afternoon light.  He likes the moss-covered rocks. He likes the line Derek’s bicep makes arcing away from his body, the planes of his stomach, the curve of his hip right at the edge of his jeans –

Oh.  Oh, shit not this again Stiles thinks.  He’s suddenly conscious of the fact that he’s looking at Derek with the longing of a starved man looking at a banquet spread. His face flushes.  His mouth goes dry, and his stomach fills with a heavy sense of dread.  Because this is bad.  And the worst part is, this is definitely not the first time this has happened. He glances over at Scott and Jackson, they are – thankfully – too absorbed in arguing to notice Stiles’ silent panic. And Derek is –

Derek is looking right at him.  And it is perfectly clear to Stiles in that moment, that Derek _knows._  

In hindsight, it is abundantly obvious that Derek probably knows about each and every time Stiles’ treacherous, traitorous brain has taken him down this path.  Because, according to Scott, Derek knows what he’s thinking before he’s even thought it.  Knows what he’s feeling just by looking at him.  And sure, Scott’s not exactly the most reliable source of information _in re_ Derek, but it’s not like Stiles has anything else to go on. 

God, he probably knew the first time Stiles had to remind himself to keep his eyes front and center in the locker room.  The first time he jerked off thinking about dick.  And, okay, wow, _that’s_ not something he’s let himself acknowledge in the light of day yet, but apparently he’s going there now.  Stiles can feel the adrenaline in his system start to kick in – his heart pumping, the hair on his arms rising.  And unless he wants to explain why he’s a having a panic attack to Scott, and oh god – _Jackson –_  he needs to leave, now.   He bolts.  He’s saying something out loud, but he’s not even sure what.  He doesn’t stop till he gets to his car. __

His dad isn’t there when he gets home. Which is nice, because it means Stiles can freak out in relative peace. He showers, then defeated by the stuffy dull heat of the house, goes to the back porch. It’s not really much cooler outside. The sun is all the way down now, but the air is still hot and motionless.

Stiles hears him approaching, which means Derek wants Stiles to know he’s coming. The crickets are out in force, but he can still hear Derek picking his way slowly around the side yard. It’s dark, and Stiles hasn’t bothered to hit the porch light, so he doesn’t actually see him until Derek is close, right up at the base of the steps. The collar of his t-shirt is damp, and his hair is limper than usual, and there’s a part of Stiles that’s gratified that even the Mighty Alpha Derek Hale is affected by the heat. 

Derek joins him on the porch swing.  “You took off fast” he states mildly. Like it’s werewolfese for _good evening_ or _pleasant weather we’re having, isn’t it?_ Like it’s not a loaded statement.  And as if they don’t both know why.

“Yeah, well” Stiles casts around for something to say, “I had stuff to do.  People to see.  Places to go.” He trails off lamely.  When he looks up, Derek is looking right at him.  Those pale eyes are focused on him in a way they aren’t very often.  Stiles has a sudden creeping suspicion that maybe in addition to smelling emotion and lie-detector hearing, werewolves can read minds.  That maybe he can see one neuron lighting up after the next.  Maybe he’s watching Stiles’ brain bounce back and forth between _leave me alone_ and _don’t go_.   Although with the curveballs his brain’s been throwing him lately, and all the flickering messages of _want_ and _don’t want_ , Stiles thinks that would make exactly one of them that knows what’s going on up there.  “Look” he says, “you didn’t have to follow me home.  I’m fine.  I’m just… tired.” 

“I thought you might want some one to talk to.”

This is so far off from what Stiles expected to hear, so out of character that it shakes a laugh of him.  “God. No.  I do not want to talk about it.  And Jesus – what do you care, anyway?” 

Derek look genuinely perplexed at this, and a little peeved, “You’re my pack.  You’re upset.  Of course I care.  And I think you do want to talk about it.”

Which is, of course, true.  Stiles has opened his mouth to say something dozens of times.  But each time the words stick in his throat, and he’s left like a fish, gasping.  But the important distinction is that he wanted to say something to Scott or maybe Danny, or even his dad _–_ not to the guy who threatens to rip his throat out on a regular basis.  Except that’s the guy who’s here.  That’s the guy who’s asking.  And the thing is – he already _knows_.  And Stiles knows he knows.  And Derek knows Stiles knows he knows.  And it’s all so _stupidly_ recursive he has to stop thinking about it. 

Still, he looks away, “I think I’m gay” he tells the yard.  Out loud it sounds like such a small thing.  A nervous laugh bursts out of him. 

When he risks a glance over, Derek is smiling a little bit, looking out at the shadowed yard too.  “You know it’s fine, right?” He says looking at Stiles again.  “Your dad’s going to fine with it.  Scott’s going to be fine with it.” 

 Stiles’ mouth twitches. He feels weirdly euphoric and disconnected, like his head is still trying to have a conversation with Derek, but his body can’t stop giggling. “You mean Scott doesn’t know already?” He’s out-and-out laughing now, and barely manages to get out “I thought that’s why you were out here – because I’m broadcasting some kind of werewolf-detectable gay distress signal?”

“That’s – uh – not exactly what you were broadcasting” Derek looks like he’s not sure whether he’s supposed to laugh with Stiles or not, “Besides, Scott and Jackson don’t really know how to read those signals yet.  I only knew because I was… listening.”

“You were listening?” For some reason this is hilarious. 

“Yes, Stiles – I was listening.”  He’s back to sounding irritated again.

Derek’s hand is on his shoulder, Stiles notes. Probably trying to get my attention, Stiles thinks distantly. Probably trying to get me to stop laughing. He looks up, and yeah – that’s definitely Derek’s ‘irritated’ face looking back at him. And that’s his hand squeezing Stiles shoulder – 

Just as suddenly as it came on, Stiles’ laughing fit is gone.  Over, because Derek’s hand on his shoulder feels like it’s about a thousand degrees, like it’s burning.  He can feel fresh sweat popping up on the back of his neck.  And he’s abruptly conscious of how close they are.  How close they’re sitting.

Derek’s face is _right there_ and even Stiles can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.  He wonders how loud it is for Derek.  Derek, who’s other hand is now touching his face.  He’s blushing, hard.  He can feel heat blooming across his cheeks.  Derek is dragging his thumb along Stiles’ jaw.  His fingertips are tracing the curve of his skull, his movements have a trance-like quality.  Everything is moving in slow motion.  It feels like it takes ages for Stiles to be able to bring his own hands up. To slide them over Derek’s chest. To touch the damp shirt collar. To curl behind the nape of his neck. 

Stiles lets his eyes fall shut. He can feel the heat radiating off Derek. He’s panting lightly, and Stiles can feel the air move over his own lips, so close they’re breathing the same oxygen. And that’s all it is for the longest moment – not kissing, just hanging, waiting, breathing.

When Derek kisses him - the first time he’s really been kissed - his first impression is of the novelty of feeling some one else’s teeth and tongue with his tongue.  Almost immediately though, all he can think about is pressing Derek into him.  Of threaded his hands into his hair and licking into his mouth.  And Derek is moving against him, sliding his hands over Stiles’ body.  He tears his mouth away from Stiles’ and starts biting and sucking kisses into his throat, into the tender spot just beneath his ear.  And Stiles is gasping, eyes squeezed shut.  He feels lightheaded, all his blood rushing to his groin.  He needs _more_ – except Derek is pulling back, pulling away.

Derek looks rocked – his pupils are blown and his mouth is swollen.  He’s taking shaky breaths in through his mouth, blinking like he can’t quite focus, “I –”

Stiles waits, “You, what?”

Derek blinks at him silently, like Stiles isn’t speaking English.  “I. We shouldn’t.”

Now Stiles is the one not understanding, because they clearly, clearly should, “What?  No.  You obviously want to do this.  I want to do this.  Why shouldn’t we do this?” 

“Well, for one,” Derek is rapidly gaining his composure back, and if he weren’t trying to discreetly adjust himself through his jeans, it would be hard for Stiles to believe he’d ever looked as wrecked as he had a second ago, “you’re sixteen.”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen.  Still, too young.  And, I – I should go.” And he does.  And Stiles is alone. 

-=-

Spring quarter, 2015

Running is really kind of a lifesaver for Stiles. He thinks of running like a pill, the best of all possible pills because Stiles on running = happy, panic-attack-free, can-eat-as-much-frozen-pizza-as-he-wants Stiles. Whereas Stiles on Lexapro = meh, fat Stiles; Stiles on Strattera = skinny but panicky Stiles; and Stiles with a marijuana habit = a Stiles in danger of failing all his classes. 

So in Seattle, Stiles is a runner. He’s also out, an undeclared sophomore, leaning towards psych, an honors scholarship holder, a resident of a fire-trap falling-down rental house on Brooklyn, and a sometimes stoner. In Seattle, Stiles is not a jock, not a lacrosse player, but neither is he particularly a dork, the awkward cut-up, or the guy with the weird name. Seattle, it turns out, is a pretty big town, and it has seen weirder names than his.

Seattle, and the UW in particular is also a pretty easy place to be gay. And as such, Stiles is no longer a virgin. The first guy he slept with was a junior working in a Psych lab where Stiles had volunteered to fill out a survey in exchange for $10. Stiles was a freshman, still in his first quarter and he’d sort of wondered how it worked – how guys asked each other on dates. Who did what when. Tim did him a favor by showing him that it was extraordinarily simple. As he was leaving Tim had asked for his number. That evening, he’d texted:

_hey, you want to hang out?_

Over the next 15 minutes, Stiles had composed, typed, and erased a dozen variants of his reply. In the end, he went with: _Sure._

Tim’s response was almost instantaneous, _5607 university ave, apt c, come by whenever._

The sex had been equally straightforward and casual. When Stiles had confessed to virginity, Tim just said, “No worries.” And then, almost as an afterthought, “Yell if I do something you don’t like.” This had been followed by a blowjob. There was no yelling.

Later, he spent the $10 on condoms.

The remainder of his freshman year, it’s possible Stiles went a little overboard. He slept with guys from his classes. He slept with guys from his freshman orientation group and guys who lived on his floor in the dorms. He even slept with guys he met on Grindr before he got skeeved out by the whole idea of it. 

These days, he’s slowed down a little. Stiles still hooks up with guys, but he doesn’t feel the pressure to hook up every night or with everyone that asks. He still doesn’t really date, but he picks guys he likes. He doesn’t mention any of them to Derek. Not that he asks. 

By the time he reaches Green Lake he’s hit his stride. The weather is crappy, but it’s a Sunday so there are still plenty of other runners, bikers, and hipster moms pushing strollers to dodge on the trail. Aside from the modicum of awareness it takes to avoid these hazards, Stiles lets his mind empty. He is a set of extensors and flexors. He is a machine which exchanges oxygen for forward motion. He is a rhythm, a pattern. 

Stiles is eating up the miles, feeling good when a flash of color catches his eye. There’s a woman ahead of him; she’s wearing an almost neon-bright purple raincoat. She’s not running, but cutting up the hillside that separates the trail from the road. He can’t see her face. He doesn’t realize he’s drifting across the trail towards her until he collides with an extremely large man on rollerblades. The guy yells at him, and when Stiles looks back, she’s gone. He thinks she had red hair. 

His rhythm broken, Stiles wipes the sweat off his face with his shirttail. The afterimage of her coat in his mind makes the landscape colors look muted in comparison. The sky is a solid wall of gray. The trees are either bare skeletons or dark evergreens, their shades of green and brown barely sketched in, like a half-finished backdrop. Standing there, blinking sweat out of his eyes, Green Lake suddenly looks as artificial as it actually is – the lake itself manmade, the trail wide, and paved, and flat in a way that Seattle, with its rolling hills and its westward cant, never actually is. Feeling simultaneously silly and like a pawn wandering off the board, Stiles cuts up the hill after her. 

It’s steep, and the grass is slick. When he makes it to the top she is, of course, nowhere to be seen. 

Instead of heading back to Green Lake he continues north. He’s headed up Aurora, a street he knows only by its seedy reputation. He passes long-shuttered motels and pawn shops. He cuts west, turning down residential streets at random. He’s lost track of where he is, and how long he’s been running when he spots a trailhead that branches off the road. On a whim, he turns and cuts up it. It’s not paved like Green Lake, it’s not flat, and it’s deeply wooded in a way that reminds him of home. Several minutes in, the trail is climbing sharply, the trees break, and all at once he is looking out over the Puget Sound. The water is dark, and seems preternaturally still for being part of an ocean. 

Looking back the way he came, Stiles has several quick-fire revelations: 1) He has no idea where he is, or how far he is from home. 2) It’s getting dark. 3) He is exhausted, like legs burning, going to fall over exhausted, and 4) He has nothing on him, literally. Not even his keys. This is when he spots, thank you, god, a guy out walking his dog. 

“Hey. Hi. Nice dog.” Guy With Dog is looking at him like he’s crazy, Stiles presses on, “Right. Well, look, I was running, and I got lost. Do you have a phone I could borrow?” Guy With Dog’s frown deepens. Stiles does his best version of Charming Innocent, which apparently still works because the guy passes over a cell phone. He splutters his thanks and dials.

“Hello?”

“Becca!”

“Stiles? I thought you were going running.” 

“I was. I mean, I did go running. I just got lost, and –”

“You got lost? Seriously? Where are you?” 

Stiles scowls, “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be lost. See how that works?”

“Well then where are you calling from?”

“Does it matter? I borrowed some guy’s phone.”

“Well, why don’t you ask him where you are?” 

Right, okay, this makes sense. Stiles tilts the phone away from his mouth, “Where, um, where are we exactly?” 

Guy With Dog, has a deeply skeptical expression which Stiles has learned is endemic to Seattle, and especially to the western, Scandinavian neighborhoods, “Carkeek Park” he says, and then as if he’s not sure Stiles would know, “Seattle.”

Stiles grimaces and bites back a sarcastic remark because the guy is after all, letting him use his phone, and okay, yes, maybe he deserved that. “Carkeek Park” he tells Becca.

“Wait hold on.” There’s the sound of typing, “Carkeek? That’s like nine miles from here Stiles, how mad at your dad were you? Also, there’s no way you’re making it home before dark.”

“I’m not – never mind. Can you pick me up? I’m about to fall over and I don’t have my bus pass on me.” 

“You so owe me for this. I just packed a fresh bowl and Mario Kart is _in_ the console.” 

“Yes, alright, I will so, so owe you. Please?” 

“Fine, I’ll meet you in the park parking lot.”

True to her word, Becca arrives twenty minutes later in her ancient Corolla. Stiles hops in and looks at her. “Alright. I know you want to say it, so say it.”

She studies him from over the rim of her glasses, “What kind of idiot gets lost running?” Stiles makes a _please continue gesture_ with his hand, “I mean seriously, you what – just decided you were running a half marathon today? Are you secretly blond?”

“First of all,” He begins, “loads of rational, intelligent people get lost. Einstein, for instance –”

“Apocryphal” She dismisses.

“You don’t even know which Einstein anecdote I’m going to relate.”

She gives him a withering glance, “They’re all apocryphal.”

“Fine. Second of all, nine miles is not even close to being a half marathon.”

“How did you plan on getting home? Flying? Nine times two is eighteen. Which is a half marathon and then some.”

Stiles shrugs, “I just figured I’d call you. And here you are.”

“Here I am, but you’re buying us dinner.”

“Ah, but I don’t have my wallet on me.”

“Ah” She says, looking pleased, “but I do,” and holds it up triumphantly. “Your room is totally disgusting by the way.”

He smiles. She’s not Scott – she hasn’t known him since birth, she wasn’t there when his mom died, and of course, there’s a whole slew of werewolf-related secrets he’s never told her, but she’s his best friend up here. She makes living in exile not so bad.

That night Scott calls him. “Dude, you never call – what’s up?” This is true, Scott texts him, is a prolific forwarder of lacrosse-related articles to Stiles’ email, and is a semi-permanent presence on gChat during school hours, but never calls.

“What, I can’t just call you, my best friend, just to catch up?” Stiles can picture exactly the pseudo-wounded face Scott is making. 

“I mean, you could, theoretically.” Stiles is at his desk, pretending to study, but he gives up the ghost now, flopping onto his bed, “But you never do. So what’s going on? Did Derek say something?”

“No. Well – he did say you were extra pissy this month.”

“He said that?” This seems farfetched.

“Not in so many words. But I know how to interpret his scowling.” Scott says philosophically.

“Ha ha. What, then? Did Allison break up with you again?”

“Harsh. No, we’ve been talking about finding a place together, though.”

“No way – that’s great.”

“Yeah, well. We gotta figure out if her mom’s serious about her threats to not pay Allison’s tuition if we do.”

“Mmm.” Allison’s mother is nuts. Stiles still isn’t sure how he feels about the fact that seemingly all the women in Allison’s family turn out to be crazy. 

“Exactly.” Scott says, because Scott undoubtedly knows what he’s thinking. “But, hey – I did call to tell you something.”

Stiles makes a noise he hopes translates into, “Obviously.”

“So – uh – ” There’s a pause, and Stiles can actually see Scott rubbing the back of his head, “So, Lydia’s gone.”

That’s enough to make Stiles sit upright, “She’s _what?_ ”

“Gone. I mean, yesterday the nurse went in to check on her, regular stuff you know? And the bed was just empty. She’s just – gone.”

“What, like left under her own power? Or like someone took her?” Stiles asks.

“Nobody knows. No signs of a struggle. There’s nothing on the security footage of the front entrance. She just, disappeared.”

Stiles collapses back onto his bed, “What the fuck?”

“Dude, seriously” Scott agrees. 

Something twigs in Stiles’ brain, “Wait. When did this happen?”

“Yesterday morning, early. Apparently everything was normal for midnight rounds, but she was gone by six AM” Scott informs him.

“Derek didn’t mention anything when he called. Why wouldn’t he say anything?”

“I don’t know. Why does Derek do or not do anything? He probably didn’t want to worry you. He worries about your grades and stuff, you know.”

“He what?” This is too much weirdness for Stiles to take in right now, and they’re starting to drift woefully off-topic, “Should I come back?”

“Not anything you can do here. Derek has us checking the woods for anything weird, but – I mean – knowing Lydia, she’s going to be gone till she wants to be found.”

“Assuming she wanted to be gone in the first place.”

“Yeah” Scott sighs. “I just thought you should know. Watch your back up there, bro.”

“Right. You too.” Stiles hangs up. _What the fuck._

-=-

Fall, 2012

Derek successfully avoids being alone with him for the better part of a month. He’s gone a lot. Or he’s setting up his new apartment. Or Stiles does see him, but only in the company of Jackson, Scott, and Allison. Stiles lets it go – in part because he is technically supposed to be spending all his free time filling out college and financial aid applications – but mostly because when he imagines how that conversation might go, he totally chickens out. 

“Hey Derek” he tells the mirror, “Remember that time we made out? And it was awesome? And…”

No.

“Hey Derek. I was just wondering if you wanted to do that thing that we did that one time. Uh. Again, sometime?”

No, definitely not.

His image in the mirror looks hopelessly disappointed with him. He smooths his collar down. Not that he’s dressing up for pack meeting at Derek’s. No, because that would be stupid. He picks up Allison on the way over because the way it works is Derek gets an hour to meet with just Jackson and Scott before he and Allison show up. Stiles assumes that this is the hour Derek tells them about all the really embarrassing things about being a werewolf, probably involving hair care and shower drain clearance. Scott says it’s usually just a lot of yelling. 

Stiles pulls up to the curb and waits without getting out because the Argent household freaks him out. 

He’s only waiting a moment before Allison hops, “Hey Stiles. Quick, let’s go before my mom changes her mind and drags me back.” 

“I thought she agreed to the you-get-to-hang-out-with-us-once-a-week plan?” Stiles asks.

“Agreed because I said otherwise I’d run away and they’d never see me again. She still doesn’t _like_ it.” She throws her head back against the headrest and turns towards him.

On anybody else the facial expression she’s making would look sullen. Allison just looks poetic and tragic. Fantastic, thinks Stiles, Scott is going to mope constantly tonight. Casting about for something less loaded he asks, “Have you finished your applications?”

“Yes. Well mostly. You?” She, Scott and Jackson are all applying to SJSU, near enough to be under Derek’s supervision. Far enough that it’s not like living at home. Plus Scott and Jackson are both being actively scouted by their lacrosse coach.

“No, not exactly.” Stiles has gotten as far as looking up the applications, felt a fleeting sense of panic each time, and aborted. 

“Are you still planning on applying to Berkeley?” she asks him.

“I don’t know. It would be weird, especially if you guys are all together in San Jose.” 

“You should. It’s only, like, another hour up the road. And you’re smart enough to go.” 

Stiles gives her his skeptical face, but in truth he is curious. 

Derek’s apartment smells like food cooking, and he’s eating the last of something wrapped in a tortilla when he answers the door. It’s always weird to Stiles, when Derek does something as normal as cook. Like somehow he shouldn’t have to do all the things mere mortals do. But it smells good, and Stiles’ stomach growls. 

The minute they’re through the door Scott is on his feet, at Allison’s side, conscientious in a way only a guy who’s being given a second chance can be. Jackson is on the couch looking grim. Ah, so it’s been one of _those_ meetings. Derek’s pep talks tend to run toward the angry and threaten-y. Don’t do this or you’ll die. Do this or you’ll die. Definitely don’t do that, or someone else will die – Stiles’ train of thought is abruptly cut off when Derek sets a plate down in front of him. He looks up, surprised, “Thanks.” 

“Sure.” Derek look irritated, but whatever, because _tacos._

Tonight’s lecture is on Living in a City. Which Stiles feels is a bit silly – especially since compared to New York, San Jose must seem like small fry to Derek – but he dutifully listens. They are not to take the subway, because there are not enough exits on a subway car. They are not to kill unsuspecting muggers. They are not to live on the ground floor, but they are also not to live above the fifth floor. 

Afterwards, Jackson takes off early, and Stiles is left with the choice of doing the dishes, making awkward conversation with Derek, or watching Scott and Allison moon over each other, during the only non-parentally supervised time they have together. At the moment they’re sitting knee to knee on the couch, holding hands. 

Right, dishes it is. 

He’s standing in the doorway, drying a plate when it occurs to him to offer, “Hey Scott – if you want to take her home, you can take the jeep.” 

Scott looks surprised and pleased, “Really? Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Just pick me up for school tomorrow.”

“Thanks, man!” He and Allison have stupid grins all over their faces. Scott’s already heading toward the door. They probably think they’re being subtle. “See you tomorrow!”

 _Young love_ , Stiles thinks, _gag me_. And tries not to think about the fact that his jeep is going be ground zero for… for whatever it is they’re doing that he is definitely not thinking about. But he’s humming to himself, pleased that Scott’s pleased. 

“And how exactly did you plan on getting home?” 

Stiles jumps, fumbles the plate, recovers, “Jesus Christ!” He glares at Derek, who has abruptly materialized in the kitchen, “I figured I’d walk. It’s not that far. Or, you know, you could even give me a lift if you’re feeling generous.” 

Derek doesn’t say anything, just takes the plate from him with slightly more force than necessary and puts it away. Stiles comes to the brilliant realization that unconsciously and purely by accident, he’s just managed to engineer being alone with Derek for the first time since the night on his back porch. 

Derek looks at him, “You’re nervous.” 

“Yeah, well. I don’t really know what to say,” Stiles concedes, “Do you want me to go?”

“You’re thinking about the other night.” Derek is apparently hell bent on stating the obvious tonight, then he pauses and looks away, “No.”

“No?”

“No, I don’t want you to go. Do you want me to take you home?” Derek still looks irritated, like he’s pissed at Stiles for making him experience feelings, or something equally ridiculous. 

Stiles swallows, he’s shaking his head mutely before he can make himself answer, “No. Not really.” 

Derek takes a step towards him and stops. “What do you want?” He seems genuinely curious. 

Stiles is aware of a vague prickling sensation on the back of his neck. His heartbeat picks up. Everything else in the kitchen feels like it’s been paused. He hears himself say, “Come here.”

Derek moves towards him, perfectly soundless. He drifts to a halt in front of Stiles. For a second all Stiles can see is the slightly too-rapid rise and fall of his chest. He hears what sounds like the echo of a heartbeat. He bites his lip, and makes himself meet Derek’s eyes. He looks a bit unfocused. Derek reaches out a hand, runs his thumb over Stiles’ bottom lip. “Yeah” Stiles says. “This. I want this.”

That’s apparently all it takes – Derek presses against him, pinning him to the counter. His hands are stroking Stiles’ face, his neck, constantly moving. When Stiles kisses him, his mouth is warm and wet under his. Stiles uses his shirt to pull Derek closer. He’s vaguely aware that Derek’s got one thigh planted between his legs, and Stiles is shamelessly grinding against it. He gets his hands up under Derek’s shirt, drags his nails over Derek’s back. He’s rewarded by Derek pressing into him harder, the edge of the counter cutting sharply into his back. 

Derek is mouthing along his jawline now, kissing his neck and – Stiles finally stacks enough brain cells together to realize – he’s talking, muttering really, under his breath. “You have no idea” he’s saying, “no idea what you do to me.” Stiles pulls him up and they’re making out again, but in between kisses Derek is still talking. Stiles can’t stop long enough to listen, but he catches bits and phrases, “ – I can hear you from across town – could probably hear you from across the _state_.” Stiles drags his fingertips across Derek’s chest, skimming a nipple. Derek pants, his hips thrust forward against Stiles sharply. Pain blooms against the small of his back where it’s pressed against the counter. 

He pushes at Derek in an attempt to readjust their position but it’s totally futile. He might as well be trying to move a brick wall. He feels a flicker of fear at the thought of how much stronger than him Derek really is, “Wait. Derek – hold on.”

In response Derek twines one of his legs around Stiles’ ankle, pulls, and sends them both crashing to the ground. Stiles’ head bounces off the linoleum, and then Derek is over him, kissing him wildly. He’s using one hand to push up Stiles’ shirt, then running his hand over the exposed skin, fingers kneading into Stiles’ hip. Stiles’ adrenaline is spiking; he wants more – more contact, more skin, more _everything_ – but he is also comically uncertain about what to do. Where to put his hands. He wonders exactly how far things are going to go, and feels a pulse of nerves. 

Derek rocks back to a kneeling position, one knee on either side of Stiles’ thighs – he’s got one hand on the fly of Stiles’ jeans and he’s looking down at Stiles’ face. He’s breathing harshly through his mouth and his eyes are slightly glow-y. Stiles swallows.

Derek freezes. Then abruptly he’s pushing himself back, off of Stiles. He stumbles backwards a couple of paces, and ends up sitting with his back to the dishwasher. He’s hunched over and drops his face into his hands. 

This seems… bad. Stiles thinks, and not at all like how it goes in porn. “Derek – ”

“Just – just give me a second, Stiles” he rasps.

Stiles pushes himself up onto his elbows and waits. 

Derek finally looks at him. His face looks normal, if still flushed. “Sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

“Dude. Don’t apologize. You weren’t doing anything I didn’t want to do.” 

“Stiles –”

“Seriously. Don’t” Stiles warns.

Derek sighs. “I wanted to do more than that.”

“Yeah, well, I was kind of hoping for more than that too. Like, I thought eventually there might be orgasms.” 

Derek cracks at small smile at that before looking serious again, “And if I wanted more than that? If I wanted more than orgasms from you Stiles?”

This throws Stiles a little, because what else is there? He frowns, “Like what?”

Derek huffs out a laugh and lets his head fall back, “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“Why doesn’t it matter?” Stiles asks, irritated.

Derek looks at him again, this time deadly serious. “It doesn’t matter because whatever it is I could take it from you. I could hurt you – ”

“You hurt me all the time! You toss me into _walls_!” Stiles bites his tongue, because looking at Derek, this was clearly not the right thing to say.

He’s full on glowering now, “I could _hurt_ you. And _that_ is why this is such a bad idea.” He pauses, “That’s not who I want to be.”

Stiles throws his hands up and lets himself thump back onto the floor, “You know, I’m getting some real mixed messages here.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.” And he does sound sorry.

Stiles grits his teeth and stares at the ceiling. Eventually he hears Derek rise, then he’s bending over Stiles, offering him an arm up, “Come on” he says, “I’ll take you home.”

-=-

Spring quarter, 2015

The next morning the news all over campus is that there was a murder up on Frat Row. Stiles is Stiles, so he skips his morning classes and walks to the north end of campus. There’s a whole block cordoned off, with a couple of cop cars standing sentry. Stiles affects his best “purposeful” walk and ducks the first set of barricades. Inside the taped off area it’s clear most of the forensic attention has been paid to the second house down. It’s a big, brick house with a pair of stone lions out front. There are Greek banners hanging in the second story windows. It would look totally normal if it weren’t for the evidence markers scattered across the lawn. 

Stiles approaches. There’s a chalk outline on the path leading to the front door. He frowns, there was obviously a lot of blood, because the CSIs have marked splatter patterns as far twenty meters out. He hesitates and looks around again, it doesn’t look like they’ve found much else – no bullet casings or prints. Nothing, except – 

Except four deep, parallel gouges cut into the brick wall of the house itself. 

A cold pit of fear settles in his stomach, and he feels suddenly like he’s being watched.

Which is, of course, when the cop grabs him from behind, “What are you doing here?”

Stiles tries to swallow around where his heart has leapt into his throat. “I was just uh…” He looks at the cop, who looks very angry. He takes a breath and recovers, “My phone’s in there, man. They said I could come back and get it!”

“They said they’re re-opening the house for the retrieval of personal items _this afternoon_.”

“Come on, man. I have class this afternoon!” Stiles whines.

“Get. Out.” 

Stiles scuttles out quickly, doing his best impression of a frat boy with wounded pride. Once in the clear, Stiles pulls out his phone. Is this the sort of thing he’s supposed to call Derek about? Maybe he should tell Scott. Or maybe those marks have been on the wall for months and have nothing to do with anything. He finally slips the phone back into pocket and heads home. 

It’s after ten by the time he makes it back. He’s still lost in thought, debating. Were they really claw marks? The certainty he felt when he was looking at them is starting to fade. 

“Stiles!” Becca pops in from the living room, “You have a guest. Your high school girlfriend is here.” She sounds smug, like she’s gotten one over on him.

Stiles is left blinking stupidly, “My… what?” 

And then Lydia is standing in the doorway, smiling at him, “Hi Stiles.”

Stiles stares at her. She’s thinner than he remembers, and paler. But otherwise she looks perfectly made up, perfectly put together. 

“Becca and I were just discussing her research. It’s fascinating.” Her eyes widen in emphasis.

“Yeah, you guys must have had a really good physics program at your school. Although you’d never know it from talking to Stiles.” Becca waits a beat for the rejoinder that Stiles is still too shell-shocked to provide, “Stiles?”

Stiles is aware he’s still staring. He is frantically trying to come up with a way to get Lydia away from Becca until he can figure out if she’s a homicidal werewolf or not. Without tipping her off. Or dying. “Um” he manages.

“I’ve surprised you.” Lydia sounds exactly like she used to, sweet as pie. “How about you take me out for a cup of the coffee Seattle’s so famous for?” 

“Sure.” One word answers are apparently all he can manage at the moment. 

“Becca,” she says, turning to face her, “So nice to meet you.” And heads for the front door. 

Becca raises an eyebrow at him. Stiles has no idea what to say. “Right, whatever.” She turns to leave, “fill me in later.”

Lydia is waiting for him on the front steps. She smiles at him as he comes down, slips her hand into the crook of his arm. Her nails are painted a deep red. They match her lipstick. 

“You know, when she answered the door, I thought she was your girlfriend” she looks up at him, “but I can see now that’s not the case.”

They walk for a minute in silence. Finally, Stiles manages, “How are you – ” he breaks off, trying to decide how to finish. 

“How am I what? Or are you just asking after my health?” She gives him a sly look, “Well. I’m fine. Peak condition.”

“You were in the hospital. In a _coma_.” 

“Hmm.” She nods. 

“And now you’re here. In Seattle.”

She stops them in front of a café. “All true.” 

Stiles swallows his irritation, “Lydia – what are you doing here?”

She purses her lips at him, “Oh, Stiles. I had so many questions to ask you. But you know one of the most wonderful things about being like this – ”

“Being like what, Lydia?” he interrupts.

“ – is that I don’t even have to ask.” She finishes. She reaches out draws a circle in the air in front of his face, “It’s all. Right. Here.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and studies him afresh, “As to what I’m doing here, well – to be honest I haven’t quite decided. And it’s clear Plan A is flat out.”

“Lydia, please. A little help here? Could you just try to make sense?” Stiles is still half-convinced he’s hallucinating.

She frowns, and she’s staring hard over his left shoulder, “Hey, what’s _that?_ ”

Stiles turns, because _now what_ –

But there’s nothing there. He turns back, “What are you – ”

She’s gone. 

Great.

-=-

Winter, 2012

Berkeley rejects his early admission application, and in a fit of panic Stiles sends out applications to just about everywhere on the west coast that takes the common app. It’s kept him busy, which is good because every time he sees Derek now he’s overcome with a mixture of want and frustration – or, depending on his mood – furious anger. So it’s nice to have an excuse to get out of pack meetings. 

Stiles is working on his supplemental essays, he taps his fingers and stares at the screen.

_Describe some of your personal traits which you feel make you a good choice for UC Santa Cruz._

_In 500 words or less, describe a situation where you demonstrated leadership._

Bite me, Stiles thinks. He needs a break. 

He calls Scott. “I’m thinking about writing about the time we killed the alpha for one of my essays.”

There’s a pause, “Um. I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Stiles.”

“Why not? It was exciting. It was a growth experience. There was teamwork. There was leadership. What more could they want?” This seems reasonable to him. 

"Yeah, but there was also a _werewolf_. And some murdering.” Scott sounds a touch exasperated. 

“Point.” Stiles spins in his desk chair, “Hey – how about the time I taught you to control your change by getting those guys to beat the crap out of you? That was real ingenuity on my part.”

“Stiles, man – you need to get out of the house. Hey, we’re going to go train at the State Beach tomorrow – you should come!”

He frowns, “Why do you have to drive all the way to the coast to train?”

“Derek says it’ll smell different. Does it matter? Come on, it’ll be fun. It’ll be like a mini road trip.”

Stiles hesitates, then glances up at the screen and shudders, “Fine. Yes.”

“Great! Pick me up at six.”

Stiles is still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when they make the beach. Jackson and Derek are already there, waiting by Derek’s car. Derek raises an eyebrow when he sees Stiles, but doesn’t say anything. “Alright,” he tells Scott and Jackson, once they’ve gathered in close, “find me this plant.” And he holds out a few strands of what looks like dried grass. Scott takes it first, holding it close to his nose, his eyes closing. Jackson rolls his eyes and snatches it away. Scott takes off towards the bluff, Jackson a few step behind him. Derek looks at him, “You start scouting the terrain. You’re the next thing they’re going to be looking for.” 

It’s gorgeous out here. This part of the coastline is mostly bluffs that drop down sharply into the water. Stiles looks over the edge of the cliff at the water below, the surf is pounding against the rock walls. No good for hiding he thinks, and keeps walking. To the south there’s an actual sandy beach that slopes upward towards old-growth coastal forest. That, might be more promising. 

He’s scouted a few auspicious spots and is headed back towards the parking lot and Derek, when he hears Scott and Jackson. They’re arguing, loudly. They’ve given up talking by the time they break out of the trees, and are full on scuffling. Stiles watches as they come tumbling out of the woods, down the trail towards where he’s standing. He’s worried, because they’re fighting blindly, tossing each other around, and there’s a guardrail, but no guardrail is going to stand up to two werewolves. “Guys! Hey, guys – come on!” He calls. He’s trying to separate them, but they’re not paying him any attention. One of them, he’s not sure which, slams into him, knocking the air out of him and sending him flying – and then there’s just the sensation of falling.

He hits the water. The cold is so intense it burns. He’s under instantly; it’s dark and eerily quiet. He has no idea which way is up. He can feel the current pulling at him. 

He’s under for a split second, or a million years, it’s hard to tell. Then he’s being grabbed – tugged – they break the surface, and Stiles is gasping, coughing. He is a little unclear on the next few moments, but he knows it’s Derek he’s clinging to, Derek who is half carrying, half dragging him up the beach. Stiles’ awareness fades in and out. He’s shaking, but he’s too out of it to know why. 

They must have attracted attention, because Stiles catches sight of someone in the khaki uniform of a park ranger, he sees arms reaching out to take him, and Derek –

Derek is snarling at him (her?), fangs out, eyes ablaze. And he’s curling himself around Stiles. 

At that point, Stiles loses the thread entirely. When he comes to again, he’s in Derek’s car. The heat is blasting. Stiles picks his head up. They’re moving. Really fast. Stiles is confused, “My Jeep?”

Derek glances over at him, “Scott and Jackson are taking your Jeep home. Don’t worry about it.”

He plucks at the wet fabric of his shirt, then realizes, “Oh man – your leather seats.”

“Don’t worry about the leather.” 

Stiles lapses into silence; he feels impossibly tired.

Derek takes them back to his apartment, where he hustles Stiles up the stairs and into his bedroom. Stiles takes a minute to look around. It’s nice. The bed’s even made. Then Derek is abruptly striping him out of his clothes. And taking his own off. He pulls the bedspread back, “Get in.”

This is clearly bizarro-world, but who is he to argue? He does as he’s told.

Derek climbs in behind him, and wraps himself around Stiles. Stiles feels some warmth creep back into him. 

Derek lets out a long breath. 

They lie like that long enough for Stiles’ brain to come back online. Pieces of the last few hours come floating back. The sensation of falling. Being carried. The park ranger. He frowns. “Derek? Did you growl at a park ranger?”

Derek tenses behind him. “Yes” he says finally.

“Why, exactly?”

“It’s possible I over-reacted.” He actually sounds embarrassed.

“And, um, did he – she – see, you know?” Stiles doesn’t quite know how to ask, but Derek gets it.

“He. Yes.”

Surprised, Stiles pulls away enough to turn around to face Derek, “So – what does that mean?”

He definitely looks embarrassed. “He fainted. We’re hoping he’ll think he hallucinated the whole thing.”

“Hoping?”

“What else did you want me to do? Kill him?” 

“No. Of course not.” Stiles plucks at the sheets. 

Derek looks at him seriously for a long moment, “I might have. If he hadn’t fainted. If he’d tried to take you away from me. Stiles I can’t - ” He breaks off and takes a deep breath. When he speaks again it comes out in a rushed jumble of words, “I don’t know what’s going on. I haven’t lost control like that for a long, long time. I can hardly think around you, I can smell you, hear you from _miles_ further away than I should be able to.” He looks acutely pained, “I want so much from you, but I don’t even know what I want.”

Stiles suddenly knows where this is going. He wriggles forward, and tucks himself against Derek’s chest. “You think I should leave.”

“I think one of us should.”

“Scott and Jackson need you here.” He feels strangely calm. Derek’s arms tighten around him.

In the spring, the University of Washington is the furthest place that gives him a decent financial aid package.

In the fall, he goes.

-=-

Spring quarter, 2015

“Stiles,” he says to himself, “you are an idiot.” He pulls out his phone, scowls, but there’s no sense in putting this off. He pulls up Derek’s number and hits call.

“Stiles? Are you alright?”

“Jeez. Yes, I’m fine.” He’s already regretting this.

“What’s wrong?” Derek’s tone is totally flat. 

“I mean, nothing’s _wrong_ per se. But, Lydia’s here.”

“ _Lydia’s_ there?” That at least seemed to jolt some surprise out of him.

“Yeah. And she’s weird. Weirder than usual, I mean. And there was this murder.” Stiles lets the whole story of the morning spill out of him. When he’s finished there’s silence on the other end of the line.

Finally, “I’m coming up there.”

“What? No! I mean, what about Scott and Jackson?”

“Scott and Jackson can handle themselves for few days. I need to be up there if I’m going to figure out what’s going on. I’ll see you soon.”

Fantastic, Stiles thinks, this is exactly what this week was missing. 

At home, Becca is speed-typing on her laptop. She glances up when he comes in, “Where’s Lydia?”

“She, uh, was just dropping by to say hi.” He drops onto the couch and folds himself into a fetal position. 

Becca pauses, hands hovering over the keyboard “You look… seriously down, man. What’s up?”

Stiles shrugs, “We have a lot of history. And when I left Beacon Hills she was… sort of in a bad place. And I don’t know if she’s better now or worse.” He futzes with the pillows on the couch, “ _And_ this other guy I know from Beacon Hills is coming up and I have to deal with that.” Stiles knows that’s about as lame an explanation as they get, but what else can he say?

Becca rolls her eyes at him. “You are so lucky that I’m me, and I don’t really care about your personal life. But,” she gives him a small smile that belies her outward lack of empathy, “I can fix this.”

“What do you mean?”

She’s already sliding her laptop away, “Trust me.” 

Several hours later Stiles is high as a kite and having a one-man dance party to the Naughty by Nature that Becca is blasting at top volume. Which is when there is a knock at the door. 

“Oh, did you order pizza?” She asks from the couch.

“What? No.” He answers the door, and comes face to face with Derek. “Oh.”

“Stiles.” Derek pauses in the doorway, sniffing, “Are you _high?_ ”

“Um.” Stiles hedges. “Wait, what are you doing here?”

“I told you I was coming” Derek shouts.

“You didn’t say _immediately!_ What did you do, drive hell for leather to San Jose and hop the next plane?” Stiles asks, dumbfounded. 

Derek’s stony gaze tells him that is exactly what he did. “Right. Fuck this.” Derek grabs him by the collar of his shirt and drags him down the hall into the house. When he reaches the bathroom, he gives Stiles a hard shove forward. Stiles manages to avoid breaking his face, barely, but ends up sprawled in the bathtub. He realizes what Derek’s planning just as he turns the cold water on full blast.

“What the fuck! Jesus Christ, Derek!” He manages to turn himself around to face Derek, who has his arms crossed over his chest and is glaring down at Stiles. “You know,” he splutters around the water, “this isn’t actually going to sober me up. Now I’m just cold, wet, and high.” 

“What the hell is happening back here?” Great. That would be Becca. “Stiles, I’m calling the cops!” 

“No!” Stiles lunges up and out of the bathtub, careening out the door, “No! It’s fine. I’m fine. Becca, this is Derek. He’s always like this. Derek this is Becca, my roommate.” 

She’s staring at him dripping on the carpet. Derek sets his jaw. Stiles sighs, “Let’s just go in here” he motions at Derek towards his room, “and talk like normal people.” On his way in he mouths _very straight edge_ to Becca and flashes her the OK symbol. She just shakes her head at him. 

Stiles hates to be wrong but between the cold water and the adrenaline he is significantly more sober. He starts stripping off his sodden clothes. “Look,” he says to Derek’s grim face, “I had a shitty day, okay? I’m allowed to blow off steam when I need to.”

“You saw evidence that there’s a werewolf around. A violent one. And your first instinct was to _incapacitate_ yourself?” Derek seems really, really angry now that Stiles is paying attention.

“It’s not like it’s after me!” He argues.

“You don’t know that. What if it was Lydia, did you think of that? She knows where you live.”

“If Lydia wanted to kill me she could have done it hours ago!” This, surprisingly, does not seem to reassure Derek. 

“Stiles, you are up here by yourself. You have to take care of yourself.”

“I’m up here by myself because you sent me! You sent me away!” Stiles takes a quick breath. His voice sounds raw; he is horrified that he is still so easily upset by this.

Derek looks away. 

“Don’t even try to tell me that’s not what happened” Stiles warns.

“You really want to have this conversation now? Right now?” Derek snaps at him, “Fine. Alright – yeah, I sent you packing. And I’m sorry. I was sorry then, and I’m still sorry now. I was a brand new alpha, I didn’t know what I was doing, I was making things up as I went along, and yeah – I got some things wrong.” Derek folds his arms across his chest and glares at Stiles. 

Stiles is a bit shell-shocked, “Wait. _You made things up as you went along?_ ”

“It’s not,” Derek grinds out, “like I had any one around I could ask for advice.”

“But you’ve been a werewolf your whole life!”

“Yeah, well I’d never had my own pack before. I’d never been an alpha before. I never expected to be an alpha.” 

Stiles is doubtful, “You seemed so sure of yourself.” 

“That’s my job. That’s what an alpha does, Stiles.”

They sit in silence for a moment. “So,” Stiles begins, “being an alpha feels… different?”

Derek wilts visibly. He rubs the spot between his eyes with the heel of his hand, “Yeah, it was like – like everything got turned to eleven all at once.” 

Stiles gapes at him, “Look at you and your pop culture references! That’s – okay, well that one is thirty years out of date, but still. Good for you.”

Derek goes back to glaring.

Stiles holds up his palms, conceding, “Okay, not the time for teasing. So noted.” He pops a dry shirt on, “You didn’t expect to be an alpha?”

“No, that was supposed to be my sister. My mom – ” Derek trails off. When Stiles looks over, he’s toying with his jacket cuffs. When he speaks again he sounds distant, “My mom was the alpha. She was – she was good, too, you would have liked her. She could keep everyone in line with just a look. She never had to lift a finger, she just looked at you and you _knew_ you’d crossed a line.” His throat works for a second, then he looks over at Stiles, “I have no idea how to do that.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say. 

“And I worry” Derek continues, “When Scott first showed up – I was terrified _constantly._ First that he was going to do something that would get both of us killed. Then, later, that he was going to do something he’d regret for the rest of his life and it would be my fault. And _Jackson_ , god” Derek chokes back a nervous laugh, “did you know when he changed I had to sit up with him every night for two weeks? To keep him from destroying his room in his nightmares?”

Stiles shakes his head mutely.

“And you” Derek gives him a pointed look, “you showed up, and I thought – great, here’s one more kid I have to keep track of.” Stiles bites his lip, because that stings a little, but Derek continues, “But you basically took care of yourself. And your pack too, in a lot of ways. And then that summer – ”

Stiles squirms, “Derek – ”

“Wait, I need to say these things, and I think you deserve to hear them. That summer I could hear you so clearly – your heartbeat, your pulse, your voice, your moods. Even when I didn’t want to, even when I was asleep – you woke me up in the middle of the night. It drove me _crazy._ ”

Stiles feels his cheeks heating, because he knows exactly what he was doing in the middle of the night that summer.

Derek smirks at him, “Yeah. Exactly. But I didn’t know what was going on, or why.” His eyes get distant again, “My mom said once, that as an alpha, when you met your partner you would just know. Of course, she was talking to my sister, and…”

“And that’s not really a very helpful description?” Stiles asks.

Derek shrugs, “Yeah. But I think that maybe this,” he makes a vague hand gesture, “is what she was talking about.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me any this before?” Stiles asks. “This all would have been nice to know, you know? I thought you hated me.” 

“Stiles you were seventeen. And I had all the power – I had all your friends. I thought that if I said I wanted you – wanted all of you, for the rest of your life – that you’d feel like you had to accept. Or lose everything.” 

Stiles is silent for a long time. He looks at Derek, “Is that… do you still want that?”

“Yeah” Derek says softly, “I mean, I’ll live if you don’t want to, but yeah. Yes.”

Stiles’ chest feels tight, “I need to think about it. This. All of it.”

“I know” he drops his eyes, “We need to find Lydia tomorrow. We should get some sleep.” Without asking he stretches out on the floor next to Stiles’ bed. 

Stiles climbs into to bed. His limbs feel stiff and awkward. He stares at the ceiling. After a moment he pitches a pillow over the side of the bed. He hears Derek’s puff of surprise, followed by a belated, “Thanks.” Stiles grins, he’s either happy or terrified, he’s not sure which. 

That morning there is a brief argument, conducted in furious whispers over coffee.

“Don’t you have class?”

“If you think you’re going to go look for Lydia _without me_ then you’re crazy.”

They pause as one of Stiles’ roommates filters through the kitchen. There are four in total, but besides Becca they’re sort of a rotating background cast in Stiles’ life. 

“She could be dangerous” Derek hisses.

“Yes exactly” Stiles hisses back.

Derek sighs, “Fine.”

The crime scene is a dead end. Derek confirms that the scrapes on the wall are claw marks. He finds a second set on the underside of the wooden stair rail. He pauses, frowning, then carefully sniffs them.

Stiles rolls his eyes, then quickly looks around to make sure no one is around to witness the crazy. “Well?”

Derek is still frowning, “There wasn’t a werewolf here. There were two.” 

Stiles raises his eyebrows. That’s new.

“But the scent trail is cold. I don’t know where they went after this.”

“Or if they both left” Derek looks at him sharply. Stiles shrugs, “They haven’t ID’d the victim. Just said it was a white male, mid-thirties, and not a member of the frat.”

“Where’d they take the body?”

“The morgue probably. It’s on third, downtown.” Stiles pauses, “Is it fucked up that I know these things?”

There is a smile tugging at the corner of Derek’s mouth, “Fucked up but useful.”

“It’s right next to this shady hotel – ” Stiles break off midsentence. 

“What?”

“Nothing. Do you need me to come with you?” he asks, trying to sound subtle.

Derek is not fooled, “Where are you planning to go, Stiles?”

Stiles looks at him, all innocence, “I just had an idea about finding Lydia. It’s kind of a long shot, though.”

Derek studies him, and finally sighs, “Just be careful.”

Stiles sends Derek off with directions to the morgue, then heads downtown himself. There are a finite number of five star hotels in Seattle. The Four Seasons is a bust. He heads to the Fairmont. Walking in he feels particularly conspicuous, there are way too many chandeliers in the lobby for him to feel comfortable walking around in his hoodie and jeans. The concierge gives him a significant look, “Can I help you, sir?”

Stiles pulls out his most charming smile, “I’m looking for a friend of mine? She called, but I totally spaced on her room number. Lydia Martin?” 

The concierge gives him a look that tells him she’s heard better lines than this, “I’m afraid it’s against our policy to confirm whether a specific person is staying with us. And we certainly don’t give out room numbers.”

Stiles’ face falls.

“However” she continues, “Ms. Martin did ask that if anyone were to inquire about her at the front desk, they were to be given this.” She slides him a folded piece of paper. 

Stiles snatches it, “Thank you!”

It’s a note, written on hotel stationery:

_Stiles + Derek –_

_Dinner reservations are at 8 at the Pink Door. Don’t be late!_

_XOXO,_  
 _L_

 

Stiles stares at it, mouth hanging open. 

“Will there be anything else, sir?” The concierge is clearly laughing at him on the inside.

Stiles shuts his mouth with a snap, “No. Thank you.” He leaves in a daze. 

He rendezvous with Derek back at home, which is for once, blessedly empty. “Well?”

“He was definitely a werewolf” Derek answers. “And he was definitely killed by a werewolf. I didn’t recognize him, but that’s not a surprise.”

“That’s… disturbing.” Stiles can’t help it, he grins and waggles his eyebrows, “Want to know what I found?”

Derek looks suspicious, “What?”

Stiles hands over the note.

“How’d you get this?”

He shrugs, pleased with himself, “I just went to the nicest hotel in town, and – boom. There it was.” 

Derek rolls his eyes, then looks thoughtful, “It could be a trap.”

“You think she’s going to kill us in the middle of a crowded restaurant” Stiles deadpans. 

Derek shrugs, “She could just be planning on killing everyone.”

“Wow, I bet you are a delightful dinner companion. Why would she even want to kill us?” 

Derek frowns at his sarcastic tone, “Stiles we don’t know what she is now. What happened to her… it’s not something I’ve ever heard of before. The bite, you _know_ it changes people.” 

Stiles glowers at him, “Understatement.” 

In the end, they go to dinner. Because, really, there isn’t any other option. 

Lydia is waiting for them when they arrive, seated at a small table in the back. It’s dark, the walls are painted in vaudeville stripes, and there are a truly dramatic number of candles scattered around. She stands when they come in, and holds out her arms, “Boys! You made it!” She’s wearing a bright green dress, her hair pinned back like a ‘40s movie star. She looks flawless. 

Stiles lets himself be hugged. Derek looks briefly panicked, but Lydia settles for patting his cheek. “I’m so glad you could make it. Isn’t this place darling?”

“Lydia – ” Derek starts, but she waves him off.

“Wine first. Then business.” 

Lydia engages the sommelier in a lengthy discussion of the pros and cons of Italian reds, a conversation during which Stiles thinks Derek might actually break something from clenching his jaw so hard.

When they’re served, she raises her glass, “To old friends?” Stiles hesitates, his eyes sliding over to Derek. Derek stiffly picks up his own glass and clinks it against her’s; Stiles follows suit. Lydia winks at him over the rim of her glass. She takes a sip and sets it down, “There. That’s better. Now, I don’t suppose there’s any way I could put you off until after dinner?”

“Lydia,” Derek grates out.

“I didn’t think so. Where would you like to start?”

“You’re a werewolf.”

She purses her lips at him, “Well. I suppose there are things Chanel No. 5 can’t cover, after all.”

He stares at her, “You’re not an alpha. You’re not a beta. What are you?”

She waves a hand at him, “You’re the old money when it comes to this wolfy business, Derek. I just go with what I’ve got. Although,” she says, cocking her head to one side to look at him, “if you think I’m going to put myself under someone else’s control, well – ” she tosses her hair, “you’ve got to be kidding.” 

“Is that what happened to the guy outside the frat house?”

She smiles at him, then her eyes slide away. “Oh, we should order appetizers!”

The waitress materializes at her side as if by magic. Lydia orders a ridiculous amount of food, she glances over at Stiles, “I’m just starving these days. Do you like oysters?” 

Stiles nods dumbly. He keeps looking between Lydia and Derek, sure there’s something he’s not picking up on. He knows Derek’s on edge, but then he has been since they walked in. 

The waitress leaves and Lydia taps her nails rhythmically against the table, “I suppose you’re talking about Jeff.” She stops and studies her nail polish, “Yes. Well, he had some unfortunate hang-ups about territory and trespassing.” 

“Are you planning on staying up here, then?”

“What – in Seattle? No! It’s rather drab here. And damp.” 

Derek leans forward, hissing, “Then why did you have to kill him?”

“Well,” Lydia leans forward to match his posture, “it did occur to me that maybe I should just kill _all_ the werewolves I could find. They can be such a menace, you know.” They both freeze.

“Guys. Guys,” Stiles says, looking nervously between them, “I hate to break up this awesome staring contest you have going on but – oh look! Oysters.” Stiles is saved by the arrival of shellfish. 

Lydia gives the server a brilliant smile, “Thank you.” Derek’s eyes never leave her. 

“But, frankly,” she carefully spears an oyster, freeing it from its shell, “it was rather messy. Which I hate.” She holds it out to Stiles.

Derek growls, low in his throat. They both look at him. 

Lydia looks back over at Stiles, he swallows nervously, “Um. No, thank you” he manages. She shrugs and pops it in her mouth. 

She makes a dismissive gesture, “But that’s not why I came up here.” 

“Why are you here, Lydia?” Stiles knows that flat tone that Derek is using. It usually doesn’t mean good things. 

“Isn’t that part obvious? I’m here for Stiles.”

Stiles chokes on a piece of calamari. 

Without taking his eyes off Lydia, Derek reaches over and thumps him on the back. Stiles recovers, grabs his water glass, and downs half of it. 

“Um. What?” he says, feeling stupid.

Derek looks livid, he opens his mouth, but Lydia waggles one carefully manicured finger in his face, “Uh-Uh. You need to be quiet for this part of the conversation. And sit still.” Amazingly, Derek’s mouth snaps shut. She turns to face Stiles, “Stiles. To be perfectly honest, I haven’t thought this all through yet, but here’s the plan: I’ve spent the last three years lying flat on my back. And now I’m awake, and it turns out the world is my oyster. I want to travel. I want to go everywhere I’ve ever wanted to go. See everything I’ve ever wanted to see. I want see the Long Room Library, the Salamis Tablet, Paris. And I want you to go with me.”

Stiles blinks at her, “Me. Why?”

“Because you were always good to me.”

Stiles glances over at Derek, who hasn’t moved an inch, but he remains silent. He thinks about his dad, his pack, and Derek – who had in so many words, asked for his help last night. “Lydia, I can’t.” 

She smiles at him sadly, “I know. But it was worth a try.” She sighs, and summons the server, “The bill? And could you grab my coat, please?” She asks.

The server dismisses her first request, “Oh, no. It was our pleasure Ms. Martin.” 

Stiles frowns – that’s weird. 

Lydia stands and smiles down at him, “I told you Stiles, these days the world is my oyster.”

The server returns with her coat. Her long, purple raincoat. She catches him looking at it, “Oh yes, I was keeping an eye on you. And I still will be.” She leans down and very softly kisses his cheek, “How about I bring you back something nice from Athens?” She smiles again, “Goodbye Stiles” then reaches out and ruffles Derek’s hair, “Goodbye Derek.” Derek doesn’t answer. 

Stiles watches her leave. 

As soon as she’s out the door, Derek gives himself a hard shake. He glares at Stiles.

“Dude, what?”

“She made it so I couldn’t move. Or speak. And you didn’t notice.” He sounds disgusted. 

“She what? Like she froze you? How’d she do that?”

“I don’t know. I can’t believe you didn’t notice.”

“Well, I mean, you seemed quiet, but you’re not exactly _chatty_ at the best of times. So.” 

Derek’s glare hasn’t faded. 

“Hey, look,” he risks reaching out and clasping Derek’s arm, “I’m staying, at least. That’s good, right?”

The glare dims slightly, “Yeah. That’s good.”

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

They slip into the house quietly, to avoid disturbing his roommates. Stiles doesn’t bother with the light in his room. He strips out of his clothes. Derek is already stretching out on the floor. Stiles climbs into bed. He stares at the ceiling. Same ceiling as last night, no new answers hidden up there. He listens for the sound of breathing next to him, “Derek?”

There’s a pause, “What?”

Stiles chews his lip for a second, “Come up here.”

Another delay, then the sound of Derek getting up. He pulls his shirt over his head, and skims his jeans off. Stiles folds the blanket back. Derek slides in carefully. He’s lying on his side, facing Stiles but not touching him. Stiles can see his eyes in the dark.

Stiles feels the tension like a weight pressing down on him. “Well,” he says finally, adopting a serious tone, “I think I can safely say I am never eating oysters again.” 

Derek spits out a surprised laugh. He’s smiling, looking at Stiles. This, Stiles decides, is exactly where he wants to be, he lets himself be hopeful that maybe this can work out. He stretches a hand out to run it over Derek’s face, cups the back of his neck. Derek’s eyes fall shut.

“Yeah,” Stiles says evenly, softly, “Yeah I’ll stay. I’ll be your partner. I’ll help you raise your pack.” Stiles smiles, and pulls him in close.

-=-

 

 

Epilogue

Winter, 2018

Stiles is being shaken awake. He jolts upright, he’s disoriented, he’s… sitting at their kitchen table, one page of his LPCC exam study guide is sticking to his face. 

Derek gives him a long-suffering look. 

“What?” Stiles says, peeling the paper off his face, “I was studying.”

“Uh-huh. Argent called. The rogue up in Minnesota apparently left another bite-orphan behind.” 

Stiles groans, “Minnesota? It’s going to be freezing. How old? Or can he come here?”

“She. Thirteen. And maybe – no known relatives, living in foster care.” 

Stiles’ eyes widen, he smiles excitedly. 

"No Stiles, we are not opening… whatever it was you wanted to call it – ”

“Xavier’s School for Gifted Werewolves! Don’t even pretend you don’t get the reference. And come on – this makes four. Four is enough to be worthy of a school name.”

“Four is enough to give me gray hair.” 

“Hmm,” Stiles agrees, and looks up at him, “Then aren’t you glad you have me around to help?”

Derek sighs, but reaches drape a hand across the nape of Stiles’ neck, “Yes,” he says, “I suppose I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story really grew out of my love for fiction based on the soul-bond/destined partnership trope, but with the realization that having that at 17 would suck. Any comments or advice much appreciated, especially since this was my first time at bat :)
> 
> Gentle liberties were taken with the geography of Seattle and the California central coast, where I rather arbitrarily decided to put Beacon Hills. In addition, Green Lake in Seattle, is actually a naturally-occurring lake, although it was made over and re-constructed to fit an urban space. And the University of Washington, last time I checked, doesn't accept the Common App.


End file.
